


So Tonight That I Might See

by spacemonkey



Category: U2 (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-29 12:27:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18778282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacemonkey/pseuds/spacemonkey
Summary: Bono and Edge do a bit of storm watching before getting distracted, as is their way. Set in 1992.





	So Tonight That I Might See

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all, I'm being reckless in writing but I had to do something for Bono's birthday today, and this didn't take long and I really did need the distraction from uni ahahahah everything is FINE. Anyway, this is a sister story of sorts to 'Fade Into You', which I wrote in 2016, and by sister story I mean it was inspired by a flashback in that fic. For that reason, I felt it appropriate to title this fic what I have, which is actually the title of the album that the song Fade Into You comes from. Cool story bro, amirite? 
> 
> On another note, I posted the first chapter of Nexus three years ago today, which is pretty terrifying and makes me feel all sorts of weird about not finishing the damn thing yet. BUT I am on holidays relatively soon, and you better believe that a new chapter will be my first priority--that, and catching up on ALL THE FIC I'M SO BEHIND ON, EXCITING TIMES FOR SPACEMONKEY. But anyway, here you go, have a fic, I love you all, happy birthday Bono etc etc etc xxx

They say it takes all kinds to make a world, but Edge suspects the same logic could apply when considering Bono. Impulsive, stubborn, clever and sweet—that’s him in a nutshell. Of course, there are many other facets to take into account when pondering the livewire that is Bono, but right now, those four qualities are enough to shape Edge’s current world.

And what more could he ask for? There’s no reason to be greedy, and for tonight, at least, he has everything that he needs.

This is not where Bono’s supposed to be. There had been plans of something else taking place right here in the heart of France, though at a location far homier than this admittedly classy hotel room. Edge hadn’t heard the exact specifics, but he was certain that Bono would have had his eye on a cottage large enough to also house a wife, two little girls and whoever else decided to pop their head in for a hearty hello during these two nights in Lyon.

But, as any parent knows, it doesn’t take much for plans to change when children are involved. It’s now up to another family to make that cottage a temporary home, while Bono settles for an extended conversation over the phone that, obviously, will never be the same as a hug, a kiss, or an _I love you, Daddy_ in person.

It’s not something that Edge would readily admit, but selfishly he’s glad about how things have turned out, even if it pained him just a tad to see the disappointment as it played out in real time. But that was in the past—over a week ago, when Ali had made the decision with a worn-out  _I’m sorry_ , and then this morning, when Bono had told her _I do understand, and don’t worry about it, I’m fine_.

He’s since had the chance to get over it, to accept the second-best option, as he often says, with a smile that’s as warm as it ever could be when directed towards Edge and an invitation that couldn’t possibly be turned down.

How could anyone say _no_ to this, when it’s on offer from Bono? They would have to be crazy. Though perhaps saying _yes_ is also insanity, in a way, but that’s fine. They can be mad together. The two of them, out here on the balcony with a glass each in hand, watching it all unfold.

There’s trouble in those dark clouds, and rumbles that could shake the earth to its core. It’s been a while since they’ve done this, and Edge is hoping for a cracker of a storm to really turn the night into a memorable one.

All he needs, really, is enough to make Bono smile and keep it that way. A few bolts of lightning, electricity in the air. It can’t be too much to ask.

And anyway, doesn’t Edge deserve some kind of happiness? He has been a good boy, after all, except for all those times when he hasn’t, but he’s long since made his peace with God. How many other people can say the same? A few, certainly, but not all. And it’s the latter who probably demand the most.

Another rumble, this one close enough to raise the hairs on the back of Edge’s neck, causes Bono to whistle and say, “Do you think we’ll lose power?”

“Probably not,” Edge replies, though he hopes that he’s wrong. It’s always a different world during a blackout, one where time doesn’t matter and they have no choice but to hide away and create their own light until morning comes.

Judging from Bono’s sudden expression change, he’s gearing up to say something tremendously clever. But before he can open his mouth, his attention is stolen once more by the most epic of distractions. A bursting of light, cutting through the dark clouds, causing him to sit up straighter in anticipation of what surely is to follow. And when the answering rumble comes, so does that smile.

There is more in it, of course. More lightening to prickle their skin and make the night burn in the back of their minds for longer than a day or two, more to expect on their horizon tonight.

“God’s got his camera out again,” Bono says at exactly the right moment, his eyes shining bright as he needlessly points to the sky. There’s just something about that specific smile of his that always brings out the child in them both. “Smile and wave, Edge, we might just end up on his mantelpiece.”

How can Edge resist? He may feel like an idiot, but still he smiles and waves until Bono erupts into laughter that soon melts back down to a wide grin and a look that says more than words ever could.

It’s precisely what Edge has been hoping to see, though, naturally, it can’t last forever. And why should it? It takes all kinds to make a night. That look, that smile, that hand, even if it’s not yet made its move. But any moment now, a change will come, even if the _how’s_ and _why’s_ are still a little vague. Not that Edge could care—he’s just glad for the experience, however it begins.

“Smell that?” Bono asks in a tone far more suggestive than the question logically requires. “Rain’s coming.”

He’s almost too late in making this prediction, but Edge is still suitably impressed. Realistically, it might just be too early in the game to add _prophet_ to the ever-expanding list of Bono’s special qualities, but to hell with it, it’s the perfect day to start puffing up his ego that much more, so why hold back?

“Alright, smartarse, then tell me this,” Edge starts after an appropriate pause, keeping his voice loud enough to be heard over the pounding downpour that is slowly but surely invading their not-so-covered shelter. It doesn’t help that the rain seems intent on attempting to fall sideways. “What number am I thinking of?”

“Sixty-nine, dude!” Bono exclaims like a man who should be hanging around outside a Circle K. There is a sizable chance that he may have guessed correctly, but that’s neither here nor there.

“How old are you again?”

“Age is but a number, Edge. Anyway, you’re only as old as you feel, and all that crap. But enough about me, how old do _you_ feel?”

“Right now?”

“Right now.”

“Fifteen.”

“You know, most people would just generalize and say a teenager,” Bono says, shaking his head. “But here you are, narrowing it down to a specific age. Why fifteen?”

Edge has his reasons. And maybe one day he might just sit down with Bono and explain them all in full. But right now, doing so doesn’t seem like their top priority.

“Why not?”

It may not answer the question, but it’s the correct response, as it turns out. Wearing that satisfied little smirk of his, Bono turns back to survey the scene ahead before making his move. It’s not the one that Edge has been hoping for, but it’s still expected, in part.

There’s a particular way that Bono moves through life that is exclusive only to him and has been a source of fascination for Edge since day one. He watches now as Bono steps up to the railing and tilts his head back, eyes tightly closed as he welcomes the rain against his face, his shirt, smiling like he’s in love with the world.

Occasionally, Edge can’t help but wonder if it’s possible for one’s chest to actually explode out of sheer adoration. It’s a curiosity that he keeps to himself, of course, though Bono would probably understand. Who knows? He might even have wondered the same thing once or twice in his life. But while watching who?

There’s a reason why Edge chooses to keep his mouth shut. He knows the score. And it shouldn’t kill him, and most days it doesn’t, but sometimes . . .

He never planned on getting in so deep. With any of it. But regret is not a word that exists in this context, no matter how hard he’s tried in the past to steer himself back towards logic and culpability.

No, he’s made his choice. And right now, he’s about two hundred percent certain it’s the right one.

Finally, that hand makes its first move. A simple gesture, two crooked fingers beckoning Edge to come closer. How could he ever say no?

They’re both soaked through when they finally do make it inside, tracking wet footsteps against pristine carpet and peeling off sodden clothes as they go. Edge has more than half a mind to forgo the next step and jump right into the noise, but it’s not a warm night and, try as he might, Bono can’t quite keep the shivers at bay, as minute as they are.

They step under water that’s close to scalding at first and then perfectly agreeable after a quick adjustment. Briefly, Edge considers listening to at least one of the suggestions coursing through his mind, but when Bono tilts his head back and smiles like he’s still out there on the balcony, any thoughts of debauchery flits away. For now.

But who knows what the future holds? An hour from now, or a minute—realistically, probably twenty, thirty seconds—Edge might again prove to be a very bad boy.

It’s approximately forty seconds later that he gives up on all his morals, leaning in and shrugging half-heartedly at Bono’s _what took you so long?_ look before meeting him for a kiss that improves significantly once they shift a few inches to the left.

Sure, the cool glass against his arse comes as a bit of a surprise to Edge, but at least the water is now raining down onto Bono’s back instead of their faces. And Bono is still warm, and comfortable, and smiling against Edge’s mouth, and it may be dark and stormy outside but somewhere on earth the sun is shining bright enough to affect anyone in the cosmos looking to be transformed for even an hour or two, though hopefully longer.

There’s only so long that either of them can waste water and not feel like an arsehole. Privilege unfortunately only reaches so far, and sometimes Bono looks as though he could crack in two while discussing all those souls that go without each and every day.

But for a few minutes, they allow themselves the luxury of staying under the water, tormenting each other with touches that don’t land where they are really wanted and laughing like fucking teenagers.

It’s true: Edge really does feel fifteen tonight, just as he did this morning, and on Friday, and every other time the two of them have come together since that first frantic fumble in Berlin. Longer, even. Years. Perhaps five, ten, more. It’s hard to know for sure, to put a definitive label on when, how and why that feeling started to appear.

All Edge knows is that when it’s just the two of them, and he’s graced with a kiss, a grin or an indecent suggestion that must be met, he’s taken right back to that first time they played together in Larry’s kitchen. And if he was to close his eyes now (though why would he dare?) he could sketch a perfect visual in his mind of how easily Bono dropped to his knees and touched the guitar of a boy he barely knew, demanding attention with one hand, one Lady Di smile as the song came to an end.

It’s fascinating, really, that Edge has forgotten basically everything else of significance in his past, but he still cannot forget the way that Bono looked up at him that day, nor how warm little Edge felt at the prospect of maybe having made a friend for keeps.

The poor bastard, he had no fucking idea of what was to follow.

Out of the shower, a cursory attempt at drying themselves is made before they leave the bathroom behind. Bono’s hair is still dripping at the ends, sending slow trickles of water down his pale skin and immediately blotting the silk pillowcase when he falls back against it. He doesn’t seem to care one iota, however, about this or that or anything else but their current situation, even if he’s bound to slip at some point during what’s left of their night. A faraway look, a smile that doesn’t quite hit its mark—Edge has seen it all before, and knows well enough to not be offended, that it’ll pass in seconds. That he shouldn’t take it personally.

This may not be where Bono’s supposed to be, but that doesn’t mean—at this very moment, anyway—that he would rather be with anyone else. What else could Edge possibly ask for? It’s more than enough.

“Do you think it’ll rain all night?” Bono asks as he props his head up with one arm for a better view. His other hand he keeps busy, drawing lazy patterns against Edge’s back as he slowly starts his decent, feeling in a giving mood.

“It might,” he answers, then presses a kiss against Bono’s ribcage, another to the left of his belly button, eliciting a pleased little hum.

“What about tomorrow? Do you think it’ll still be raining during the show?”

“Do I look like a weatherman to you?”

“Not at all,” Bono says, his lip quirking at the thought. “Actually, you don’t look like anyone on this planet, and that’s a good thing, Edge. You’re one of a kind, a true original. And still in mint condition, no less. I bet all the boys and girls at school are fuming that it’s me, not them, that gets to take you out of your packaging and have a bit of a play. But fuck the lot of them, I say.”

A simple _no_ would have sufficed, but Bono’s approach to conversation has always been _why say one word when you can say a thousand_?

Truthfully, Edge wouldn’t have him any other way. Amid that rambling was a knockout compliment that landed right where it’s needed, and it’ll stay there for a while longer yet, well after Edge figures out the best way to return it using his fingertips, his mouth and anything else he has of use on his person. And any minute now, he’s going to start them both on that journey, but first he needs to take a moment to contend with that well-known feeling in his chest, a pressure that is mostly welcome as it threatens to burst.

It’s a breather that Bono doesn’t question, that makes him smile in a way that’s positively mystifying and exciting. To pass the time, he lightly runs his knuckles, and then his nails, back and forth along Edge’s shoulders and up and down his spine. A sigh against Bono's hipbone makes his hands come to a stop, but it’s only when their eyes meet that his smile turns familiar, hitting Edge just like the finest well-aged whiskey might. And, naturally, there’s only one way that he can think to respond on such a day, to keep that expression on Bono’s face until it shifts toward something far more obscene:

“Happy birthday, B.”


End file.
